Captive
by Jilsen
Summary: Historical-fiction. Twelve year old Ned Nickerson is captured by Indians in 1865. He lives with them, learns their ways, and becomes one of them. He considers himself an Indian warrior, no longer white until he meets a white woman held captive in an Apache camp. Can she lead him back to the white world or is the gap too great?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own Nancy Drew or any characters associated with her. I make no profit from this work._

_Disclaimer: The copy art, entitled "Brave Spirit," is the work of Lee Bogle. Lee is an accomplished artist and readers can view his other works by visiting his website._

_A/N: This story is quite different from the usual stories posted here. No Frank, no Joe, and Ned as the leading man? Yes. I think he's terribly underused in fanfiction. That could be because he comes as sort of a blank canvas. The books never gave him much backstory which suits my purposes fine. It's left to me, the writer, to develop his character and guide you, the reader, through his journey from boy to man. And not just a man, an Indian brave. Nancy shows up in the tale, but not for a while. Ultimately, this a Ned/Nancy love story._

_ I realize readers may not be interested in a story such as this, historical-fiction, and if I find that is the case, I'll remove it. This story is based on real events that happened to real people in the 1860s and 70s. I have woven those elements into my story._

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_Chapter One_

_Texas, 1865_

Horses. One of God's most majestic creatures. Here in Texas, herds of mustangs roamed the plains free and wild.

One year ago, on my 11th birthday, father gave me a horse. A beautiful gray mare with a white spot on her forehead. The spot was shaped like a diamond and so, I named her Diamond.

Five years ago my family moved to Texas. Father often said, we were part of the westward expansion of the United States. Mother often reminded him that our move had not come without a great many inconveniences and dangers.

The land was hard and unforgiving. Rain fell in either abundance or not at all. Most folks made their living raising cattle and horses. We were no exception. Our ranch consisted of cattle and a few horses.

Father was a blacksmith and knew a great deal about horses. He imparted this knowledge to me, his only son. Most days, father rode to the Army Fort. He had first offered his services to the commander during the Civil War. The commander, often short on men and supplies, had gladly accepted. Thus, father had established a business for himself. The fort had hundreds of horses and welcomed the services of another blacksmith. The fort's own blacksmiths were frequently out with scouting parties, hunting for marauding Indians.

Father received a small amount of money for his services and this provided us the means to buy sugar, flour, cornmeal, and coffee. The essentials of frontier life.

Today, I thought not of food or Indians, but of the magnificent land before me. The Southern Plains. I sat straight and tall in the saddle and let my gaze sweep over the undulating landscape. Waves of buffalo grass swayed in the chilly morning breeze. Mesquite trees and sage brush dotted the land.

It was late April. My mother and two younger sisters were busy planting the garden. Mother had sent me out to check on the cattle. It was calving season and we had several pregnant cows. Breach births were common and could be fatal to mother and calf. I knew what to do if I encountered this situation.

I prodded Diamond and we trotted toward a spring that ran through our property. Cows liked to gather there and lay in the shade of a large Palo Verde Tree.

My breath plumed in front of my face as I scanned the open fields. I kept a sharp lookout for cows resting on the ground.

We were nearing the spring when the baleful moo of a cow caught my ear. I turned in the saddle and froze. A band of mounted Indians, galloping at breakneck speed, were headed straight for me. A cloud of dust swirled behind them. War paint glistened on their cheeks. Decorated shields hung from their arms. Hands clasped weapons; tomahawks, lances, rifles, or bows. A quiver of arrows bounced on their backs.

I took the scene in and then came to my senses and thumped Diamond with my heels. An arrow zipped past my head as Diamond bolted through the thorny brush and tall grass. Bloodcurdling war whoops split the air. I thumped Diamond harder and glanced back. Angry faced Indians lashed their ponies with their quirts, pressing them hard.

I urged Diamond on. "Giddy up, Girl! Giddy up!"

Diamond's speed increased. Her long strides devoured the ground. She loved to run and I was a good rider. My legs strained against her body, each delicate movement of my thighs and calves directed her.

Cold air rushed past my face and grabbed at my throat. Giant puffs of steam bellowed from Diamond's mouth and nostrils. Fleet and sure-footed, she raced over grassy mounds. Her hoofs plowed up dirt and dust. Cactus and sage brush clawed at my pants and boots.

What did the Indians want? Me or Diamond? The Comanche and Apache were known horse thieves. Horses, for them, were money. After a successful raid, the Indians would travel to Mexico and trade stolen horses for blankets, beads, and other goods such as tobacco, rifles, and ammunition.

In recent months, Indians had raided many of the surrounding ranches. They'd made off with property, cattle, horses, and even a few children. Those poor souls. What had become of them?

The soldiers at Fort Mason had tried to exact revenge on the savages. But the Indians knew this land well and always managed to escape unpunished.

Another glance back. Fear and panic rose hard and fast in my chest. The Indians were gaining on me. Their well-trained war-ponies seemed to fly across the ground.

I spurred Diamond in the sides. "C'mon, girl. C'mon!"

The Harmon Ranch was five miles away. Maybe we could make it there. We sailed over a ditch and landed hard on the other side. Diamond's neck was coated with sweat and I felt her faltering.

Seconds later, the Indians cleared the ditch. Behind me, the drone of hoofs grew louder and clearer. Thunk, ka-thunk. Thunk, ka-thunk. I peered into the distance and strained my eyes, searched for the Harmon's tin roof. Where was it?

Two Indians drew even with Diamond and me. One on the left and one on the right. We raced neck-and-neck, three riders, Diamond and me in the middle. One warrior reached out and tried to grab me. I ducked, threw myself flat on Diamond's neck and grabbed hold of her mane. The maneuver confused her and she slowed her pace. The two warriors raced on unaware of the change.

I sat up and tried to turn Diamond in a new direction. She wasn't having any of it. She reared and whinnied, her forelegs pawed the air. I clutched the reins and held on tight. The two warriors noticed our absence and turned their ponies. They galloped toward us kicking up a cloud of dust.

More Indians appeared and jerked their ponies to a halt. They formed a tight circle around Diamond and me. Diamond snorted, pawed the ground, and shook her head. We were trapped, surrounded, and neither of us liked it. Diamond curled her top lip, bared her teeth, and let out a heart-rending whinny. I felt for her, but there was little I could do to comfort her.

Six braves glared at us, an awe-inspiring sight in war paint, feathers, and beads. They were armed to the teeth, a terrifying array of weapons – rifles, revolvers, knives, lances, and the quintessential bow and arrow.

One brave motioned for me to dismount. Another raised a rifle and aimed it at me.

I leaned forward and patted Diamond's sweaty neck. "It'll be fine, Girl."

I slid off Diamond and lifted my hands in abject surrender. One mounted Indian let out a whoop and pumped the air with his lance. Another drove Diamond into a herd of stolen horses.

The remaining Indians reared their ponies in a victory display. Diamond was a real catch. As for me, I feared a lead ball in the heart and a scalping.

The Indians wheeled their ponies and rode in a wide circle around me. Yapping and whooping, they passed in a dizzying blur. Lances and arrows were thrust at me. I dodged the sharp tips then stumbled and fell. The ground vibrated beneath me as the ponies circled.

One painted warrior lifted his rifle in the air and shouted something that brought the others to a halt. He jumped off his pony, grabbed the front of my jacket with his free hand, and hauled me to my feet. He struck me in the head with the side of his rifle and motioned for me to mount his pony. I shook my head and backed away.

He went to hit me again, but I smacked his hand away. These Red Devils would not take me. Not easily and not without a fight. I balled my fists and conjured up the meanest, fiercest scowl I could muster.

The Indian slapped me about the head and shoulders. I blocked some of his blows and got in a good lick. I punched him in the cheek and smeared his war paint. His dark eyes flamed like the fires of Hell.

He struck me in the head with the butt of his rifle and yelled something in his language that I did not understand.

I paid him no mind and locked a hand in one of his long black braids and pulled. To my delight, he yelped. This brought another Indian into the fray and together they pushed me to the ground and pinned me on my back. I twisted and squirmed as they stripped me of my buckskin jacket and cotton shirt. Now, I was naked from the waist up just like the Indians. I laid there on the rough, rocky ground breathing hard. I was cut and scratched from wrestling with them.

My original antagonist grabbed me by the arm and yanked me up. He shoved me toward his pony and swiftly mounted it. With the help of his friend, he pulled me onto the pony and seated me behind him. He drew my arms around his waist and thumped his pony. The big palomino took off like a shot. I lurched and clutched my captor around the waist.

The Indians pressed their ponies to top speed and we raced across the plains. I caught sight of Diamond, wide-eyed and frightened, in the herd of stolen horses. I wished I could calm her, stroke her neck, tell her everything would be fine. Of course, I didn't believe that. Not at that time. Nothing was fine. Each long stride of my captor's pony took me farther from my family and home, farther from the life I knew. What lay ahead, I did not know and could never have imagined.

The Indians headed northwest pushing their ponies to the limit. When a pony became jaded, they switched to a fresh mount. I would soon learn my captors were Comanche, the best horse riders on the Southern Plains.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

The Comanche rode hard all that day and night. They stopped twice to rest the horses. The first time, they dragged me off the palomino and removed my boots and pants. The boots were tossed into the brush and may be resting there yet. The pants were stuffed into a saddlebag for what future purpose I did not know.

The second time we stopped, I was not permitted to dismount. I sat naked and watched in anger and frustration as the Indians sipped water from buffalo skin pouches. No water was offered to me.

Comanche warriors were trained to go days without food or water and intentionally choose routes that had no water. This helped them escape the Army soldiers and Texas Rangers sent to pursue them.

However, I suffered immensely. By the second day my back and shoulders were sunburned and blistered. The insides of my thighs were rubbed raw. My body ached from head to toe. I was lightheaded and parched. Hunger tormented me, but thirst proved my greatest enemy. Thoughts of water consumed my mind. I thought, surely, I would die from lack of water.

Late that afternoon we came to a swift moving river. The Comanche dismounted and forced the stolen horses into the icy waters. The horses plunged into the river and swam across. The Indians led their ponies into the water and swam beside them. I was forced to stay mounted. My captor swam beside the pony and kept a watchful eye on me and the river. The currents were strong and thus, his attention became focused on the river and not me. I seized the opportunity and splashed great handfuls of water on my face and body. The icy water was a balm to my scorched skin. I even managed a handful of water for my thirsty mouth. Those few drops were a gift from God. They revived my body and my spirit.

On the opposite bank, the Indians held a brief council. Soon after, they separated into two bands and headed in different directions. This tactic was designed to confuse pursuers. My band took half the horses and continued in a northwesterly direction. We traveled at a good clip and took frequent breaks to rest the tender-footed horses.

Around midnight the Indians stopped. Someone had spotted an antelope and made the kill. My captor slid off his pony and motioned me to do the same. I was anxious to part ways with the pony and immediately swung a leg over the buffalo-hide saddle. However, my body was numb from two days of constant riding and I fell to the ground. The Indians laughed. I tried to get up, but my body refused to cooperate. It simply would not, or could not, carry out my mental commands.

I lay there in despair, my body an aching, throbbing mass. I searched the heavens and my eyes started to tear. Hundreds of stars glittered in the dark sky. How could such beauty exist above so much pain and misery? Thoughts of home and family filled my mind. Did mother and father know what had happened to me? Had they organized a search party? Perhaps a rescue posse was tracking my captors now as I lay on the cold ground, a rock poking me in the back.

Thoughts of Texas Rangers and soldiers in hot pursuit gave me hope. I grabbed onto that hope, clutched it like a lifeline, and didn't let go. I swore to God, and mother and father, that nothing would break my grip. I would not let go of that hope. Someone, someday, would find me. I _would_ be returned to my family. If not rescued, then the Indians would likely ransom me. They ransomed women and children all the time. Mother and father would pay any price to get me back. They would sell everything they owned if necessary. I knew this to be fact. My heart told me it was true.

I had to stay strong a little longer. Father's words came to me, words he had spoken when I was troubled or dejected, usually over a perceived failure on my part, "_Never give up, Ned. If you lose hope, you've lost everything. Absolutely everything. A man without hope is a man who's already dead._"

Father was right. I made a promise that night to never give up. One day, I would return home. One day, I would stood in the doorway of my family's cabin and greet them with loving arms.

With the promise made, my body gave out and I fell asleep.

How long I slept, I do not know. The smell of cooked meat woke me. The Indians were huddled round a small fire, their voices low and their conversation relaxed. Each man was the master of his meal. Some roasted chunks of meat over the flames while others ate it raw.

Hunger brought me fully awake, and again, I tried to stand. My luck was no better this time. I fell and flopped about like a fish out of water. These antics set the Indians to laughing again.

I kept working my body and got my legs under me. I took a step and fell flat on my face. Blood spurted from my nose and ran down my chin. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth. The Indians howled with laughter. Some slapped their bare thighs. It seemed, I was the nightly entertainment.

After the laughter died down, my captor brought me a piece of raw, bloody meat. Given my circumstances, and hunger, I snatched it from his hand. I'd never eaten raw meat before and it did not sit well with my stomach. It came right back up. My captor brought another chunk of raw meat and motioned me to eat it. Hunger drove me to try again. And again, I vomited.

My captor and I repeated the process until the meat stayed down. How many times we repeated that wretched ritual, I do not know. My meal, if one could call it that, left me exhausted and I fell into a thankless, dreamless sleep.

I awoke, cold and shivering, in the dark. Sunrise was still a few hours off. I was curled in a tight ball, my arms wrapped around my bent legs. My teeth chattered violently. I'd slept naked and uncovered on the ground.

Around me, men yawned and stretched. Some wandered into the brush and urinated. Buffalo skins and blankets were rolled and tied to saddles. Shields and quivers were slung onto backs. The Indians were breaking camp. I got to my feet and prepared to face the day, to accept what lay ahead.

We mounted the ponies and started out before the sun crested the horizon. We continued on our northwesterly course and, after several hours of hard riding, came to a stream. Here, the Indians stopped and set up camp. Our band was six men strong. Two were sent back to check for pursuers.

Everyone dismounted, including me. The ponies and stolen horses were released to graze on the open plains. The Indians went to the stream and filled their water bags. I shielded my eyes with a hand, squinted, and scanned the plains for Diamond. I found her leisurely grazing, a sturdy bay by her side. She seemed content and the bay seemed protective of her. He lifted his head and neighed a warning when another male approached. It did my heart good to see Diamond and to know she was fine. And unlike me, she had a friend and protector.

The Indians showed no interest in me and I decided to meander down the stream, to get away from them. I had noticed my missing saddle, it no longer rested upon Diamond's back. It now graced the back of one of the Indian's ponies. Fury and anger born of hate rose up in me. My hands fisted of their own will and I blew out a hot breath. The Indians had taken everything from me – my family, my home, my horse, my saddle, and my clothes and boots. Nothing was left, absolutely nothing, and at that moment, I hated the Indians beyond all reason.

I hated myself, too, for getting captured, for leaving the cabin without my rifle. That had been foolish and stupid. When confronted by the Indians, I'd had no way to defend myself or Diamond. I vowed that would never happen again. If ever I got hold of a weapon, it would become my faithful companion. It would never leave my side.

I stumbled along the stream, wandered past briar bushes and mesquite trees, and came upon a mud hole. Insects buzzed above it and landed on the murky water. I got on my hands and knees. Insects landed on my sweaty body. I swatted them away and pushed my face into the mud. It felt great, a blessed relief. I slid into the mud and rolled in it like a pig, covered myself with it – face, chest, arms, and thighs. The mud soothed my sunburned skin and eased the pain of the sores I had developed over the past few days. I lay there a long, long while enjoying that wonderful, blessed mud.

I was loathe to leave that mud hole. Only the sound of the Indians' angry voices got me out of it. Logic said they were looking for me. I thought it best to return of my own accord. I feared a punishment if they thought I had attempted an escape.

I came around a mesquite tree and startled the Indians. I was quite a sight. Mud caked face and body, hair standing on end. The Indians stared open-mouthed for about half a second and then one snickered. Another laughed. By this point, I was tired of being laughed at. Actually hated it.

The one who had captured me, and thus owned me as I would soon find out, threatened me with his quirt. He lifted it and yelled at me. His threat failed to scare me. I was tired, hungry, thirsty, and covered with sores. Every movement brought intense pain. What more could they do to me? Death, at that moment, would be a welcome relief.

I snarled and motioned for him to hit me. _Do it!_ I moved my arms in big, exaggerated gestures. _C'mon, beat me!_ _Get it over with_.

This response surprised him and the other three Indians. He lowered the quirt and looked to his companions for advice. The men talked rapidly, their words overlapped, each man wanting his opinion heard. The occasional narrowed-eyed glance was shot my way. Their heated conversation and gestures indicated that some wanted to kill me while others argued against it.

At last, the discussion ended and the four Indians lined up in front of me. One drew a bow and arrow. Another drew a pistol. Both took aim at my chest. The one with the bow notched an arrow and drew it back. I lifted my head in defiance. _Let it be_, I thought.

I closed my eyes and waited. Which would pierce my body first? The arrow or the lead ball? I willed myself to be strong. _Do not flinch. Stand straight and tall. Be stoic and brave._

I waited, but nothing happened. What were they waiting for? Why didn't they shoot? I opened my eyes and saw them lower their weapons. What now? Another change of plans? Couldn't they make up their minds?

Now I was mad, seething. I sneered at them beneath a furrowed brow. _Cowards!_

An Indian rushed up and punched me in the stomach. He had checked his swing at the last second, but still, a torrent of pain flooded my body. Hot tears stung my eyes. I coughed and choked and gasped for air. But I remained on my feet. I would not fall. I would not beg for mercy. These savages would not have that satisfaction. Not now. Not ever.

My captor stepped forward. He was of medium height and broad shouldered. His face carried the nicks and scars of many a battle. I squared my shoulders, steeled myself for another blow. This one would surely put me on the ground for good.

My captor lifted a hand and reached out. He grabbed my muddy, sunburned shoulder and smiled. In broken English, he said, "Make good warrior."

A high compliment, but one I did not fully appreciate at the time. Then, I was naïve to the ways of the Indians. Unbeknownst to me, I had taken the first step in becoming a Comanche warrior.

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_A/N: I must say, I'm pleasantly surprised, and heartened, to see there is some interest in this story. I extend a huge thank you to those kind enough to leave a review. Hopefully, this chapter keeps you interested. Thank you again for the reviews. _


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

We stayed at the stream for five days and rested the horses. My treatment was somewhat better now after my show of bravery. I could drink from the stream whenever I liked and was allotted a portion of the evening meal.

The Indians dressed me in a breechcloth and painted my face and body. I also received a name, Tuinᵾhpᵾ (Boy). _Boy, do this. Boy, do that._

I learned to fetch whatever the Indians wanted and I learned to fetch it quickly. Quirts lashed my back, arms, and legs when requests were misinterpreted or not completed fast enough. Such punishments increased my understanding of their language more rapidly than any other incentive. Within days I knew the most important words – horse, water, food, eat, fetch, stay, go, come.

Each day the braves spent hours repairing their shields, tightening their bow strings, and sharpening lances and arrow heads. I watched every move with rapt fascination. Their weapons, and how they used them, was of great interest to me.

After a bow had been restrung, it had to be tested. A large mesquite tree was chosen for target practice. Yellow and red circles were painted on the trunk and lower branches.

The braves took turns shooting. Their accuracy and speed impressed me. An arrow rarely missed its target and often, three or more arrows were released in rapid succession.

Friendly competitions developed between the braves and wagers were made. After each match bracelets and necklaces, blankets and skins, were exchanged with good humor.

After each round, I was sent to collect the stray arrows. A hot and dusty job fraught with cuts and scratches. Cacti and briar bushes surrounded the tree.

Cut and bleeding, I delivered the arrows to the braves. Special marks on the shafts identified the owner. This was the second day of practice and by now, I knew each brave's mark. Braves smiled when I handed each man his own arrow.

One brave frowned when he received his arrow. The shaft was slightly bent and the arrow had not flown straight. It had cost him a wager and he cursed the arrow. He threw it back into the briar patch and his friends laughed. I thought the arrow a fine piece of workmanship and wanted it. I made gestures asking if I could have it. The brave shrugged and waved me in the direction of the arrow.

I endured the briar bushes yet again. This time, though, I returned with a prize, my first arrow. I ran a finger along the sharp edge of the arrowhead. It was exquisitely made, a wonderful arrowhead. This was a weapon and I was happy to have it. It would not leave my side. I tucked it into the leather band around my waist.

The braves took a break and snacked on strips of dried buffalo meat. A brave offered me some and I gladly partook. We slacked our thirst at the stream and then began the next round of shooting.

I watched each brave closely, watched how he notched his arrow and took aim. I stood to the side and mimicked their moves, their stances. A bird alighted on a branch and I shot an imaginary arrow at it with an imaginary bow.

My childish play caught the attention of the braves. My owner, Two Feathers, came over and with his bow demonstrated the proper way to hold it. He stood close and gave the instructions in Comanche. The words were a mystery to me, but I understood the motions. Two Feathers took an arrow from his quiver and demonstrated how to notch it, how to hold it in place, and take aim. He showed me twice then held the bow out to me. I was shocked and surprised. My hands trembled as I took the bow. I lifted it and held it the way Two Feathers had shown. I looked up, seeking his approval, and he nodded.

The wood was smooth against my hand, the sinew taut and stiff, difficult to pull. The bow was a little big for me, but I was eager to shoot it, to try an arrow.

As if he read my mind, Two Feathers handed me an arrow. A grin, a mile wide, broke across my face. My heart fluttered with anticipation. My hands shook as I notched the arrow and took aim. Two Feathers leaned over and made adjustments. _Thumb here. Fingers there. Sight down the arrow_.

The braves were quiet, all eyes on me, awaiting my first shot. I felt I was to be judged. My worries were small. I was a decent shot with a rifle and therefore had high hopes in this endeavor. Father had said, "Ned, you are possessed of excellent eyesight and have a most natural instinct when it comes to shooting."

Father's words rang in my ears as I let loose the arrow. I watched it sail well under the target and land in the briar bushes. My shoulders sagged, my disappointment great. How could it be? I had aimed dead center at the target.

Two Feathers made an arching motion with his hand. _Aim higher, above the target_. Yes, of course, the braves had aimed high, compensating for the arrow's arched flight. Two Feathers handed me another arrow and I tried again, aimed higher this time. The arrow sailed above the target, but only slightly.

Two Feathers nodded his approval and handed me another arrow. I spent that afternoon practicing. The braves brought me into their competition, included me in their wagers. My early efforts were met with laughter, but as the day wore on my skill improved. A good shot won me praise and smiles. A miss earned me advice spoken in words I did not understand, but I listened intently as though I did. I studied their gestures and put meaning to their words. At day's end, I had more hits than misses.

Thus my status rose. That night, as we sat cross legged around the fire. I was given a choice piece of meat. Two Feathers, with the solemnness of a preacher, placed the meat in my hand and beamed at me like a proud father. His smile comforted me, gave me hope I would be treated well from this point on, but still, I feared him and the others. I felt it unwise to change my judgment of them so soon, so easily.

I ate the meat and enjoyed the fire. The flames flickered and danced throwing the Indians' faces into shadow and light. It was a small fire, the wood carefully chosen. The Indians used as little wood as possible. This created very little smoke and helped conceal our location.

I finished my meal and plodded to the stream to wash my hands and face. As I dipped a hand into the water I heard a coyote howl. The moon was bright and it bathed the land in a silvery glow. I searched bushes and trees for a coyote, but saw nothing. I sipped water from my cupped hand and kept watch. Another coyote howled, this one closer. Fear pricked my neck and numbed my skin.

I was alone and unarmed. To meet a coyote in such circumstances was unwise. I hurried back to camp and found the braves in a state of agitation. Some had taken up defensive positions. An Indian cupped his hands around his mouth and howled. Answering howls echoed in the distance, beyond the light of our fire. Indians used animal calls to communicate with each other.

Suddenly, out of the darkness came a band of Indians. They rode into camp, triumphant, dressed in the most garish outfits, the spoils of a successful raid. Cowboy hats, top hats, and bowlers bounced on heads with long dark hair. Suit jackets were wore the wrong way round - buttons on the back, not the front. An absurd sight. One proud warrior wore a woman's corset as a breastplate.

The true purpose of a piece of clothing did not interest the Indians. They used items to please themselves or loved ones. Blankets, quilts, and ticking from feather bed mattresses were tied to saddles. These would make good gifts for a wife or girlfriend.

I hung back, made myself small. Indians greeted each other, hugged and laughed, and showed off trophies: jewelry, beads, and scalps. My stomach churned. Bloody scalps dangled from poles. Blond hair, red hair, dark brown hair. Short and long. The scalps of men, women, and children.

My knees buckled, almost gave out. Bile rose in my throat. I stumbled to a bush and crawled underneath. I curled into a ball and pressed my head against my knees. Hate coursed through me like hot venom. Confusion muddled my thoughts. Today I had felt some companionship with the Indians, had enjoyed shooting arrows with them. Now, I hated them. Their laughter made me sick. I wanted to punch them in the gut - all of them. Burn all of them alive in the fire.

But I was only a boy. What could I do against so many? Tears streamed down my face and my chest heaved with silent sobs.

Later, Two Feathers found me shivering under the bush, curled on my side, dried tears on my cheeks. He laid a buffalo hide beside me and made signs that I should wrap myself in it. I hesitated, afraid to accept his generous offer. My heart and mind were confused. Earlier today, things had been pleasant, bearable. Two Feathers had encouraged me, guided me in the use of a bow and arrow – _his_ bow and arrows. At dinner, he had given me a choice cut of meat. And now a warm, cozy sleeping hide. Why?

Two Feathers took me by the arm and pulled me onto the hide. I sank onto the soft, warm fur. Years of smoke and sweat tickled my nose. In a strange way they comforted me. Smoke meant fire and fire meant safety. The sweat was Two Feathers'. I knew his smell by now and in my mind, he had come to represent safety. He had cared for me today. Shown me kindness.

I felt Two Feathers wrap me in the hide. Comfortable and warm, sleep claimed me straight away.

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_A/N: Thank you readers and my faithful reviewers. Someone asked what would have happened to Ned if he had failed the tests. I want to clarify that these were not actually tests. The Indians were not kind to their captives and to their way of thinking, if a captive survived the harsh treatment or showed a backbone, it meant they would/could make a good warrior (or squaw if the captive was a girl) and could be adopted into the tribe. Not all captives were adopted into the tribe, most became slaves. More of this will be explained in upcoming chapters. :) _


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

I woke to a brilliant sunrise. For the first time in days, I had slept warm and well. However, dreams of my mother and father and two younger sisters had haunted my sleep. I missed my family and wished to return home.

I kicked the buffalo hide off of me and sat up. I had been with the Comanche for almost a week and saw no evidence anyone was pursuing us. The Indians certainly did not seem concerned about Texas Rangers or Army troops trailing them.

My hopes of rescue waned and a bitter depression settled upon me. Was my life destined to be spent among the Indians? I could not fathom such a thought. Me, living among uncivilized savages? Murdering savages, no less. I didn't see how I could fit in and wasn't sure I wanted to.

I rolled up the buffalo hide and looked around for Two Feathers. I did not see him and headed to camp. It was in disarray. Firewater had been consumed during the night and fights had broken out. Most Indians were still asleep, still wrapped in hides and blankets. Many of the sleeping sported bruises and knife cuts. A few Indians were awake. They sipped stolen coffee and stared bleary eyed into the distance, too hungover for conversation.

It was to be my experience that firewater and the Red Man never got along. The two were not a good mix.

I wandered into the brush to relief my bladder. A brave stumbled into the brush not far from me and vomited. He retched violently then sank to his knees and fell face down on the ground. I adjusted my breechcloth and snuck closer. I eyed the brave cautiously. He was a young man, no more than eighteen. A brown pill bottle lay on the ground beside him. A bad feeling came over me. That brave did not look right. The way he lay there unmoving, like he wasn't breathing, frightened me. I scampered back to camp, anxious to put distance between me and the unconscious man.

It wasn't long before someone found him and an anguished cry split the air. Indians sprang from their hides, grabbed their weapons, and rushed into the brush. I followed on their heels. A horrible fear grew in my stomach.

A brave, painted in red and black stripes, knelt beside the unconscious man. I would learn later, the red and black striped brave was called Standing Tree. The unconscious man was his brother. Standing Tree stretched his arms to the sky and pleaded for an answer. Why had his brother been taken? Why? Standing Tree moaned and wailed, but no answer came. It was a pitiful sight.

Another brave crept forward and picked up the pill bottle. He held it out for all to see, turned it upside down, and shook it. The bottle was empty. The white man's medicine had taken an Indian's life.

Standing Tree rose and snatched the bottle out of his comrade's hand. He looked the bottle over. I saw his face change from one of grief to one of anger. Slowly, Standing Tree pivoted, his eyes hunted the crowd. The corners of his mouth were pulled down in a menacing scowl. Those angry eyes came to rest on me and I trembled. The devil himself could not have inspired more fear.

Standing Tree's hand went to the knife at his waist. He yanked it free and lunged at me. He caught me by the hair and held me aloft. The blade of his knife cut into my throat. My toes danced above the ground and I grimaced in pain. Standing Tree wanted revenge. A life for a life. It was the Indian way.

I reached down and clutched the arrow in my waistband. I would pull it out and stab Standing Tree in the arm. It was a good plan, but I did not get a chance to use it. Two Feathers came forward. His eyes blazed like the embers of a dying fire. A muscle twitched in his cheek, a sign of his displeasure.

The crowd parted and backed up. I suddenly realized, Two Feathers was a figure of authority. His presence commanded respect. Gazes shifted warily from Two Feathers to Standing Tree.

When Two Feathers spoke the crowd was silent. Two Feathers' voice was low and stern. He owned me and only he decided my fate.

Standing Tree held me a moment longer then opened his hand and I fell to the ground. Standing Tree tucked his knife in his waistband as I scrambled to my feet. Standing Tree turned on his heel and strode away in an angry huff. I watched him go. Instinct told me that brave was not done with me and I should watch my back.

I still clutched my arrow. It had given me confidence and a measure of hope when faced with an opponent. My thumb traced the sharp edge of the arrowhead. I was happy to have this weapon.

Two Feathers tapped me on the shoulder and motioned me to follow him. We walked a short distance and came to a ridge. I saw an Indian working there. He used a homemade tool to remove horseshoes from the stolen horses. The Indian was fast and efficient. Two young braves, about 14 years old, rode amid the herd of stolen horses. They were the first braves close to my age I had seen. War paint covered their faces and chests. They clasped bows in one hand and the reins of their ponies in the other. A quiver of bows hung on their backs. Those young braves looked as fierce as the older braves.

The young braves picked a horse from the grazing herd and drove it close to the Indian with the homemade tool. One brave dismounted, took the horse by the mane, and led it up the short ridge and to the Indian.

Two Feathers made hand signs and spoke to me in Comanche. I understood his words. _You, bring horse here_. I would take the horse from the young braves and led it to the Indian with the homemade tool. I would relieve the young braves of one part of their task and thereby speed up the entire process.

Why the Indians removed horseshoes, I could not say. Perhaps, it was another tactic to avoid detection. Trackers often followed the trail of shoed horses. Shoed horses usually meant stolen horses especially when found in great numbers. Shoeless horses usually meant a wild herd.

The young braves lashed their ponies and rode out to the herd. I stood on the high ground and awaited the first horse. I glanced at Two Feathers. His eyes skimmed over me, the Indian with the tool, and the two braves. His eyes never rested. Two Feathers saw everything.

Fear and trepidation set in. I did not want to fail at this task. I did not want to fail Two Feathers. I sensed he saw something in me. Something beyond an ordinary white boy. For him to think less of me would be a crushing blow. I felt I must prove myself to him. Show him, I was just as good as the young braves, if not better.

The braves drove the first horse toward me. I swallowed my fear and grabbed the horse's mane. It reared and whinnied. I let go and backed up. I was afraid the horse might step on my foot. Then where would I be? A boy with a broken foot would be of no use to anyone.

I shot a glance at Two Feathers. His eyes were narrowed and his arms were crossed.

I tamped down my fear and took hold of the horse's mane. I patted its neck and talked to it, offered soft words of encouragement. _C'mon boy. Settle down._ It worked. The horse shook its head and let me lead it up the ridge and to the waiting Indian.

The Indian grunted, took the horse and removed its shoes. When finished, he smacked the horse's rump and sent it galloping down the ridge and into the herd. The braves had the next horse waiting for me.

And so the work continued. I grew comfortable with my task and wondered if Diamond had been brought in yet. I had not seen Diamond in days and worried about her. Horses are fragile animals. They can become lame or ill for the smallest of reasons. The braves brought horses at a steady pace giving me little chance to scour the herd.

They drove a big bay toward me. I saw the snide grins on the braves' faces and the sweat on their brows. The bay was a challenge. It had taken considerable effort to round him up and force him to me. The bay snorted and shook off my advances. Then I recognized him. He was Diamond's protector. I glanced back and saw Diamond prancing and pawing. Being separated from her mate made her anxious and nervous. The big bay was not pleased either. He bared his teeth and whinnied.

I used what had worked before – a soft voice and a sure hand. "C'mon, boy. C'mon." I slid a hand along his neck and cooed in his ear. He gave a snicker of acceptance.

I stroked and petted him. Gently, I encouraged him up the ridge. "C'mon now. You can do it. Atta, boy." He took a look back, to check on Diamond, then followed me to the Indian with the tool.

Perhaps, it was the language that worked. Perhaps, the bay felt more comfortable with English words as opposed to Comanche ones.

The Indian with the tool removed the bay's shoes and smacked him on the rump. The bay bolted straight for Diamond. He nuzzled her face and she responded in kind. The happy reunion did not last long. The braves broke them apart and drove Diamond in my direction.

Joy filled my heart and I called to her. I made little _come here_ noises. Her ears perked up and she trotted to me. She did a little high-step and her tail swished. She had not forgotten me.

Tears threatened and I closed my eyes against them. I smiled and petted Diamond with affection.

As I led her up the ridge, I decided I would keep one of her horseshoes. The other three could join the growing pile of horseshoes next to the Indian.

Just one shoe, that's all I asked. The Indians had taken everything from me. All I wanted was one horseshoe from the horse that had been mine. Diamond was my only connection to home, to my past. If I could grab and keep one small piece of home, this one small reminder of my life before, then I would.

The Indian with the tool was good. He knew how to work with horses. His touch and manner put them at ease. The first shoe hit the ground and I scooped it up. The Indian knocked it out of my hand and motioned me down the ridge. _Do your job. Another horse is waiting_.

I wasn't going until I had one of Diamond's horseshoes. I leaned over to grab the horseshoe and then things happened fast. The Indian stuck me in the head with a fist. I yanked my arrow free and stabbed him in the thigh. Plunged the arrow in deep and pulled it out. The Indian howled and clapped a hand to the wound. Bright, red blood streamed between his fingers and ran down his leg.

I grabbed the horseshoe off the ground. The Indian growled and made a move to protest. I wielded the arrow like a knife and poked it at him. Threatened to stab him again. He backed down and I turned to leave.

My heart skipped a beat. Two Feathers waited in the spot where I received the horses. I could not read his expression, but I felt he could not be pleased with me. One waiting horse had already been sent back into the herd. Oh, and I had stabbed an Indian.

I lowered my head and walked down the ridge. I held Diamond's shoe so tight my knuckles hurt. The Indians would have to pry it out of my cold, dead hand.

I stopped in front of Two Feathers, my head down. I had failed him. I stared at the rocky, dusty ground. I studied my tattered feet covered in cuts, blisters, and dirt. I had never been so dirty in my life.

I straightened my back, squared my shoulders, and lifted my head. I would take my punishment like a man. I clutched a horseshoe in one hand and an arrow in the other. Neither would save me, but neither would leave me, not while I was alive.

I looked into Two Feathers dark eyes. No emotion. What he thought, how he felt, was a mystery. He pointed at the horseshoe in my hand and shrugged. _Why?_

I thought fast and pointed at his breastplate, a piece I admired. Elegant bead work in a simple design. I held Diamond's horseshoe against my chest. With words and gestures I explained. One day, Diamond's horseshoe would be the centerpiece of my breastplate.

The glimmer of a smile softened the features of Two Feathers' face and he gave a nod. The horseshoe was mine to keep. He turned and signaled the braves. _Bring in the next horse._

Relief washed over me. I had won a small victory. I tucked the horseshoe and arrow in my waistband and got back to work. The Indian with the homemade tool had been replaced. A new fellow stood in his place at the top of the ridge. The new fellow treated me with caution. He never turned his back on me and never reprimanded me when I was slow.

I must admit, after all I had been through, it felt good to be feared.

We worked late into the day and finished all the horses. Not a single shoe was left on a horse. Plenty were left on the ground. I wondered if they would be found by Texas Rangers or Army soldiers. They Indians made no effort to hide the horseshoes.

That evening we dined on antelope. A hunting party had made the kill earlier in the day. After the evening meal I scrounged around camp. It was still a mess. Debris everywhere. I found discarded pieces of sinew and gathered them up. By the light of the fire, I threaded the sinew through the holes in the horseshoe. Two Feathers sipped coffee and watched me work.

My status had changed. The others eyed me suspiciously. I was the crazy white boy. I imagined the Indians saying, _Watch your back around him. He attacked the Indian with the homemade tool. Stabbed him in the leg._

That Indian's status had changed, too. The others had mocked him. _You let a skinny little white boy stab you?_ The Indian with the tool had grown tired of the ribbing and had threatened the others with his knife, just as I had threatened him with my arrow. The others had laughed at him and left. Now, he sat alone, his injured leg stretched out in front of him and a poultice of roots heaped on the wound. He was at the edge of the firelight and half hidden in shadow. He brought a bottle of firewater to his lips and drank.

I did not fear him or feel sorry for him. He had struck me first and I had defended myself.

Standing Tree sauntered over to the fire and sat across from me. He crossed his legs, rested his hands in his lap, and stared at me. Arrogance and anger radiated off of him in hot waves. He was angry at me and only me. His anger was misplaced, although I understood some of it. He had lost his brother today.

Standing Tree and others had built a burial platform. Feathers and beads were tied to the poles. They dangled from the poles and tinkled in the slightest breeze. The brother and all his worldly possessions had been wrapped in a buffalo hide and laid atop the platform. Standing Tree had shot his brother's horse and placed it beneath the platform. When an Indian died everything he owned, even slaves, was laid to rest with him. Thus, when he reached the Happy Hunting Ground he had everything he needed.

I ignored Standing Tree and his angry eyes and worked on my necklace. I knotted the sinew and used my arrow to cut off the excess. I slipped the necklace over my head and adjusted it. The horseshoe was heavy against my chest. I liked that, the weight of it, the solidness. It felt good and right and just.

Peace flooded my body. I had what I wanted, what I had fought for. A piece of home. A reminder of my life before, before all of this.

I looked across the fire. Standing Tree was gone.

The wind stirred and I heard the faint tinkle of beads on the burial platform. It was an eerie sound, a ghostly sound. The sound of ghosts collecting the souls of the dead. A chill swept over me and I shuddered. I turned to Two Feathers. I saw in his eyes he had felt it, too, the chill. He stood, dumped out the rest of his coffee, and motioned me to bed.

We would sleep and leave the spirits to work in peace.

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_A/N: A special thank you to Ulstergirl, max2013, Cheryl, and FlightFeathers for their reviews. Hopefully everyone enjoys this chapter. Next chapter, Ned and the Indians arrive at their village._


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